UNDERWEAR ACHIEVER
Our intrepid reporter goes shopping for lingerie

BY COREY LEVITAN
STAFF WRITER
	Finding the nearest lingerie store is three 
thousand times easier than entering it. I discover this
equation while observing from a dignified distance the 
frilly facade of Frederick's of Hollywood.
	A similar terror grips males contemplating 
women's departments and boutiques throughout the 
cosmos. That's why that perfume from Christmas 
smells like Brut for Women. Lost in a women's 
department, a guy grabs the first familiar object, then 
Al Cowlings it from the scene. Department stores no 
doubt maintain separate display cases full of super-
priced female garbage just for the hapless male 
victim. No man will ask to see something "in the 
back" if it will keep him in the girls' department a 
moment longer than necessary.
	We can't help it. During childhood we're taught 
that playing hopscotch, jumprope or dolls makes our 
special friend fall off.
	Grinding thumbnail into palm, I make my first 
Frederick's entrance (but not before glancing left and 
right to check that my old high school gym teacher is 
not watching). Inside this sacheted hell I desperately 
scan the premises in search of another male for 
bonding. Just one of those "Can you believe what we 
go through for women?" nods would ease my pain. 
No dice.
	I imagine the bonanza awaiting the person who 
invents a store just for men looking for women's 
gifts. I picture big, manly Diamond Vision screens 
broadcasting basketball games, while mechnanical 
bulls whip around the perimeter. Behind the register 
would sit cans of chewing tobacco.
	This pleasant reverie is interrupted as I'm 
ambushed by an eager saleslady's "What exactly are 
you looking for?"
	That's the thing. No guy knows exactly what he's 
looking for. I've been seeing this cute girl for three 
months whose sexiest outfit makes her look like 
Bjork at the Oscars, so I'm here to see what I can do.
	My dumb silence prompts a memorized list.
	"There are cammies," she vogues, "teddies, tap 
pants, body stockings..."
	My dumb silence is now deafening.
	To add to the confusion, the plethora of silk and 
lace has me sort of -- how would you put it in a 
respectable newspaper? -- enchanted. I imagine the 
saleswoman is named Dominique and that she 
secretly plans to yank me into a dressing booth, 
where we'll transform her Maidenforms into a 
scandalous pile of ripped textiles.
	My enchantment leads to a finger stuck in the 
rack of undergarments I was pretending to peruse 
while Dominque spoke. 
	Enchanted and lodged is not a good combination. 
Without even graph paper or a protractor, somehow I 
discover the exact tugging motion required to send 25 
frilly black camisoles whizzing off the rack and onto 
the floor.
	I am now fully playing hopscotch.
	As I calmly refasten the intimates to their hangers, 
Mistress Dominique tries not to snicker, which sets 
her immediately apart from the other employees and 
patrons. She signals for backup, enabling me to hide 
in the panties section.
	I try to imagine a worse scenario. Perhaps buying 
my girlfriend feminine hygiene products without a 
price tag, so the cashier has to yell, "How much for 
these tampons this guy over here wants?"
	After two minutes my flesh tone returns. I am 
here to buy Bjork some sexy underwear, and after 
what had just transpired, nothing can embarrass me 
now. I finger proudly through the panties.
	One problem. I do not know her size. At no time 
during several rummages through my girlfriend's 
underwear drawer (yes, males do that) have I noticed 
the tags.
	Guessing her to be slightly thinner than I, my 
search for a 28 begins.
	What's this? Size 4? Size 6? Is this the toddler 
lingerie department?
	Sensing Dominique hot on my tail, I grab a 4 and 
a 5 and compute the most direct trajectory to the cash 
register.
	Fade to that evening. As my girlfriend delicately 
tears the gift wrapping away, beads of sweat clog my 
every pore. She smiles slightly, excusing herself to try 
on her exquisite bounty.
	They're too small. She feels fat. I tactfully ask, 
"Wouldn't you feel worse if I picked 7s because I 
thought you were bigger than you are?"
	You'd be right if you guessed that Bjork and I 
aren't seeing each other anymore.